


Taking BP IV:  Brian Wilson & Pat Burrell

by light_source



Series: Taking BP [4]
Category: Baseball RPF, Sports RPF
Genre: Light Bondage, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-27
Updated: 2012-04-27
Packaged: 2017-11-04 09:35:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/392364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/light_source/pseuds/light_source
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two up, two down.</p><p> <em>See archive warnings; sexually explicit, dubcon, light bondage.</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	Taking BP IV:  Brian Wilson & Pat Burrell

**Author's Note:**

> If you watch the replay you’ll see Posey raise his arms and pump a fist, then quietly walk toward the mound as teammates stream past him.  “You’re not going to find me at the bottom of a dogpile,” Posey said.  “That’s a risk I’m not willing to take.”  
> 
> \- Alex Pavlovic, San Jose _Mercury News_ , 4/20/12.

Buster gets an inkling of what he’s in for when he finds the police handcuffs on the floor of the back seat of Brian’s car.  He and Burrell and Wilson are on their way to the Haight for some postgame wastage.  Cincinnati beat them tonight, on an error in the eleventh, and everybody is long past needing a drink.

\- What the hell, Wilson? says Buster, fishing the handcuffs up off the floor, and holding them up with his thumb and forefinger between the seats. They’re surprisingly heavy. And shiny.

\- Man is a tool-using animal, says Brian, his eyes narrowing as he smiles at  Buster in the rearview mirror. 

\- Some day, Gerald Dempsey Posey _the Third_ , Wilson continues, cocking an eyebrow, - when you’re old enough, you’ll understand.  Right now, though, you need to pay attention to your elders and betters.  Earn some respect.  You been getting above yourself lately.  Making the rest of us look like a bunch of slackers.

In the front seat, Burrell grins wolfishly.

//

Wilson’s condo is tall and narrow, all stainless steel and gleaming white subway tile.  The hallway that leads into the main space is dark, cavelike, lined with metal doors that have been painted black.  When they get to the living area - one big room with a three-story ceiling - there’s a spiral staircase winding up the middle of it, the treads twisting around a massive iron pole. To Buster, it looks like something that belongs in a firehouse.

After the game ended tonight - their seventh loss in as many games - Buster and Burrell and Brian went to Toronado’s, where they’d spent a couple hours doing shots of bourbon and chasers of some Belgian beer that Brian claims is superior to the Budweiser Buster usually drinks.  

Eventually they’d found themselves so stupefied from liquor and trash-talk that they’d had to cab back here.  Brian’s car, which he’d shoehorned into a red-curbed zone on Waller, will almost certainly be ticketed, maybe even booted or towed. The amazing thing is Wilson doesn't seem to have given any of it a second thought.  Buster, who’s never parked illegally in his life, is impressed.

They mount the stairs, their shoes clanking on the metal.

\- The spiral staircase is a tool of warfare, says Brian soberly, though sober’s hardly the word for it.  

Buster’s not used to drinking, and he’s lurching around like a penguin on wet ice.  As they shuffle their way up, he has to think hard to keep his mind from spinning.  Every time he looks down through the grillework of the steps, he has to jerk his head back up, terrified that he’ll step on the narrow part instead of the wide part, and go plunging down to the floor.  

\- These suckers always spiral clockwise, says Brian, who’s right on Buster’s heels - so if the lord of the manor has to defend himself against intruders coming up, it’s _his_ sword that’s got the greater scope.

\- You’re a fuckin’ gold mine of useless information, Brian, says Burrell.  He’s already at the top, peering down at them, his eyes slits.   - When was the last time you had to go after an intruder with your sword?

Behind him, Buster hears Brian chuckle.

When they emerge, Buster is amazed to see that the ceiling of the top floor is all glass, a perfect square of night sky, and they’re in a small room where there’s a black-carpeted conversation pit ringed with leather chesterfields, uplit from behind.  Buster, his quads and glutes and lats aching from eleven long innings in the squat, sinks down into the center of one of the couches, which gives out a puff of expensive-leather smell.  Burrell and Wilson pile in on either side of him, capsizing the cushions.

\- Welcome to the crow’s nest, says Brian.

When he flips a brass switch on the floor, an enormous black TV screen rises up with a soft whir through a slot in the floor.

//

\- It’s called _An Affair to Remember_ , says Brian as the three of them stare down the blue FBI piracy warning.

At first Buster’s disappointed - he’s seen this one before, it’s totally square, one of his mom’s favorites, with Cary Grant and the blonde lady from _Anna and the King._  

But as the opening credits crawl across the screen, Buster realizes that this movie’s something else entirely.  For one thing, it’s not taking place on a ship or anything like he remembers.  And so far there’s only guys in it, and the soundtrack’s house music, and they’re all wearing leather.  Black leather.

\- What _is_ this shit, Brian?  says Buster, not bothering to keep the contempt out of his voice.

\- You might want to reserve judgment, says Brian, - about pleasures to which you have not yet been introduced.

\- Yeah, says Pat, smiling across Buster at Brian - pleasures that are illegal in the state of Georgia, country boy.

The movie takes place in some kind of dungeon, and when the two main characters start manhandling a guy wearing a blindfold and a horse bridle, Buster’s memory of his sister Samantha’s horse Petey gets all tangled up with the way the guy in the executioner’s hood has sidled up behind the guy in the motorcycle chaps and is rolling his hips against his bare, glistening ass.

By the time the guys on the screen have tied the blindfolded guy to the metal rack and started whipping him with a cat-o’-nine tails, Buster’s eyes are perfectly round. 

The movie’s stranger than anything he’s ever seen, but he can’t keep his eyes off it.  

And that’s probably for the best, because if he takes his eyes away from the screen, he’ll have to acknowledge the fact that his ass has slid all the way down to the edge of the couch, which is making it easier for Pat loosen the buttons on Buster's fly and liberate his raging hard-on from the fly of his jockey shorts.  

When Burrell bends over and takes Buster’s dick in his mouth, Buster’s taken aback - he’s used to seeing Kristen’s honey-blonde head down there when he’s getting a blowjob - but pretty soon he’s got his fists in Burrell’s curly, dirty-blond hair, his eyes still glued to the screen.

//

Some time later he finds himself flat on his back on the floor, the wiry short-haired carpet grinding into his skin.  While Pat’s working over Buster’s nipples with clamps, alternating the cold pinch of the metal with the hot wet soothe of his tongue and lips, Brian’s got two thick fingers up his ass, probing some sweet spot that makes his cock ache with frustration.  Buster’s hard to the point of pain, but since his wrists are tied to something over his head he can’t see, all he can do is sink back into the sensation and wonder what’ll happen next.

When Brian pushes Buster’s knees up to his ears, every muscle in his body objects, but Brian’s relentless hands won’t take no for an answer, and Burrell helps by holding Buster down.  When Brian’s sure he’s got Buster’s undivided attention, he grabs his own cock - which he’s wrapped in a studded black condom, dripping with lube - and swipes it tantalizingly back and forth against Buster’s hole until the younger man’s squirming and moaning, bucking his hips into it.  Wilson licks his other hand and wraps it around Buster’s dick, jerking him hard and fast till the catcher’s rough breath and contorted face suggest he’s close to the edge.  

Then, without warning, Brian shoves his cock in as far as he can, making Buster scream in pain, his mouth a rictus of surprise.

Buster’s cry makes Brian grin triumphantly and jerk his chin upward at Pat.  It’s Pat who used the leather restraints to tie Buster’s wrists to the metal rings on the enormous wooden chest that serves as a coffee table.  And it’s Pat who’s been rubbing his hard, wet cock slowly all over Buster’s skin, sometimes tantalizingly close to his mouth, but never quite close enough for Buster  to get his tongue and lips around it, feel it in the back of his throat.

Suddenly Wilson yanks himself out, and for a moment Buster feels the burn that much worse, as if he’s been speared with a pikestaff.  The pain soaks through his gut like he’s taken a fastball to the groin, and he’s boneless.

\- I think he’s learned his lesson, says Wilson to Burrell.  - Rook deserves a taste, now, you think?  Or shall we make him wait a little longer?

The searing pain in Buster’s ass has started to fade when Brian pushes his dickhead back in and his thrusts become slower, shallower.  And then, _amazing_ \- after Buster’s stopped counting the beats of the rhythm, it starts to feel good, like Brian’s fingers before, and he wants it even more than before.  Harder.   _Harder._  

Brian won’t give it to him.

He whines in frustration.  

Brian's slick length begins to warm him from within, and Buster begins to feel the pleasure unfurl around his dick, which is banging around, hard and desperate and untouched, on his belly. When Buster's about ready to boil over with rage and want, Brian reaches down again and takes Buster’s cock in his fist, and starts to pump it with the same rhythm he’s using to fuck him.  It's a rhythm exactly matched by Pat’s hand on his own thick, uncut cock, just off to the left where Buster can see it.

\- You’ve had a bug up your ass all spring, rook, says Wilson.  - Now you know what it’s like to have something bigger and better in there.

Buster’s mouth is dry and hot from breathing so hard, so long, and he licks his lips.

When Burrell throws a leg over, straddles Buster’s shoulders, and points his dick at the back of Buster’s throat, the young catcher’s mouth is gaping, only too ready, and the way Pat gives him just a little - the head, then nothing but the hiss of breath in his hot mouth, then a little more - makes Buster want to scream again, but this time with pleasure.  

He’s wondering why he’s spent so much of his life being in charge, making everyone else do things his way, because he’s never known anything hotter than the way they’re making him take it, and take it, and take it.  

//

In the morning, when the marine layer's burned off and the sun’s high enough to make shadows, Burrell stirs awake.  Brian’s stretched out on one of the couches, the straps of his leather harness cutting into his skin, his rubber hood crumpled on the floor.  Pat’s on the carpet - he’s glad he thought to put his jeans back on last night - his arm curled around a velvet pillow.  

Burrell sits up and chest-passes the pillow onto the sleeping Wilson, waking him up.  The muscles in his belly contract - he hasn’t eaten anything since yesterday lunch.  His mouth feels like it’s coated with kitty litter. He knuckles his eyes with his fingers and yawns.

\- Where’s Posey?

\- Gone, vanished.   _Vamoosed._  Fuck if I know, says Brian, with a slow, deliberate grin.

//

Downstairs the two of them cobble together a breakfast of sorts - some kind of protein-powder smoothie for Brian, and for Pat, a big glass of orange juice doctored with a couple shots of Absolut. To settle their stomachs, Brian’s made a haystack of buttered toast, and the counter’s grainy with crumbs.

\- So Brian, says Burrell, popping a last corner of toast into his mouth, - when are we gonna grow up and stop hazing these guys?  

\- Never, says Brian, - if I have anything to say about it.  He’s wearing thong underwear and a tank top. - We _own_ that motherfucker now.  Lock, stock, and two smoking barrels.

They high-five each other so hard it stings.

It’s not till later, when Burrell’s rummaging around in the hall closet looking for his jacket, that they discover that the twin handles on the double front doors have been handcuffed together.  The door’s shackled shut.  From the inside.  

Pat turns to Brian, incredulous.

\- I’m not even gonna ask if you got an extra key?

Brian shakes his head.

\- And this is the part where you tell me there’s another door in this place - a back door - right?  

The expression on Wilson’s face suggests not.

Burrell stands there, the gears of his brain grinding almost audibly in the dim of the entryway.

\- How the _fuck_?

Wilson sighs.  

\- There’s a bathroom window, Brian says, - kinda small, but there’s one of those metal fire escapes.  From there, it’s only about twenty feet.

\- To the _ground_? says Pat.

\- A dumpster, actually, says Brian.

\- So, you wanna flip for it, Wilson continues, - or rock-paper-scissors?

 

 

 

 


End file.
